


one more time around

by blooddrool



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Ana mentioned, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Phara/Fareeha mentioned, Post-Battle, Soldier:76/Jack Morrison mentioned, Team as Family
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 05:28:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10236905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/blooddrool/pseuds/blooddrool
Summary: Reaper trudges back to the transport vehicle with all the grace of a man burdened by two human bodies — which is to say none at all.





	

**Author's Note:**

> gabriel doesn't like feeling so many _things_ but, well, here we are.
> 
> he is very tired.

Reaper trudges back to the transport vehicle with all the grace of a man burdened by two human bodies — which is to say none at all.  
  
Amélie, herself, weighs next to nothing, skinny as she is, but her gauntlet and this _goddamn_ rifle make her hefty enough.  She’s long and thin, and he can just barely cradle her with one arm, but she rides real quiet.  He’s not entirely sure she’s still breathing, and her heart beats so slowly that checking it would get them killed.  From where it’s sitting in the curve of Amélie’s body, the stock of her rifle digs into his chestplate.  He can’t stop moving.  
  
He stumbles over something (rubble or a body or _part_ of a body, he doesn’t give a shit) and Sombra makes a noise, her arms squeezing around his neck and her legs moving around his waist.  He doesn’t apologize, just growls.  He can feel her, still warm, against his back, through all that leather.  She’s heavier than she has any right to be — so much fucking tech in her.  If she slipped off his back, he thinks he’d probably have to leave one of them behind.  
  
She moves again and he can feel her calf dig into a fucking _hole_ in his side.  Her uniform is going to be soaked in his blood — in Amélie’s blood — if it isn’t already ruined by her own.  
  
“Puedo caminar,” she says, and, hell, Reaper doesn’t know if he’s ever heard her sound worse.  Sombra doesn’t get _tired_ (she claims), but she sounds fucking _exhausted_.  
  
“ _Gabriel_ , puedo caminar.”  
  
The ‘r’ in his name sounds so nice on her tongue, but she’s growing more and more quiet, like it hurts to speak, and he says, “No,” because it’s the only thing he can get out.  
  
He’s slushing through blood and the only reason he knows is because he can _smell_ it.  Amélie hasn’t moved since he picked her up off that roof.  He steps on something soft and it makes a wet noise.  There’s gunfire chasing him, and he can’t move fast enough.  His fingers are wrapped a little too tightly around his remaining shotgun and things are starting to run a little red — a little grey.  He looks down and Amélie’s face is pressed into his shoulder, but then Sombra pushes her nose into the soft spot behind his ear and he remembers to keep _going_.  He wonders, offhandedly, when his hood fell off.  
  
Their pick-up isn’t far now, he thinks, because he trips less and less as the ground evens out.  
  
Sombra asks, “Why do you pretend you’re no longer a hero, huh?” and it’s thin and a little watery, like something’s stuck in her throat, but she’s back to English and Reaper takes that as a good sign.  
  
He ignores her.  
  
Or tries.  He can see the white glow of the transport’s lights, and he’s carrying two teammates through a battlefield.  His one arm is burning and shaking from the strain and the other is damn near cut to ribbons.  He’s carrying a girl fucking _piggyback_.  He thinks of Fareeha.  He thinks of Ana.  He thinks of McCree.  
  
He stumbles into the open hatch, bright and _welcoming_ , and nearly falls on his face.  There’s no one to greet them yet, so he drags himself and his passengers to the side.  There’s a booth and a table and he tries his best not to _dump_ Amélie onto it, but he does anyways; she’s still out, but he will, undoubtedly, get his ass chewed later — if Sombra tells her.  His Hellfire drops from his hand and he pulls his gauntlet off to check her pulse.  He has to wait an eerily long time before he feels a little _bum-bum_ , but he shouldn’t be unnerved.  The veins in his hand run red instead of blue, and his skin so, so white.  He’s starting to smoke around the fingertips — he hadn’t noticed before.  
  
Sombra slides off his back and crumbles when her feet hit the floor.  She was quiet before but now there’s no shortage of curses, all outstandingly creative, and Reaper is so tired, but he bends down and picks her up again, sliding her into the booth to sit.  Her hand finds his collar and he slides in after her, exhausted, drained, dying.  
  
“Damn _hero_ ,” she says, but it’s not mean and teasing like she so often is.  She sounds almost fond, maybe.  It hurts Reaper’s chest to think about.  
  
“Not anymore,” he says, and his voice sounds like it had a run-in with a meat grinder.  He presses a hand to his side and feels smoke and thick, _thick_ blood ooze between his fingers; he thinks about all those corpses outside and how he hadn’t stopped to reap, to _eat_ , because he had to get his girls back safe.

 _His girls_.  
  
He thinks of Fareeha again, and wonders if, should he start fucking _screaming_ , he would ever stop.  
  
Sombra starts to say something else that Reaper is only half listening to when Amélie takes a big breath, just short of a gasp.  Her eyes open, and Reaper can see that she _feels_ it — the pain behind her eyes.  
  
She turns her head, still spread out on the table, and asks, “Did you get him?”  
  
Sombra snorts, and Reaper thinks that’s an improvement, “The guy with the fancy stun grenade?  Tore that fucker apart.”  
  
Amélie blinks and at least has the energy to hum, satisfied.  She sits up and puts herself into the booth on Reaper’s other side with an elegance she should not possess after having been blasted by a _grenade_.  He leans back against the seat and lets his head fall.  His throat is exposed and he doesn’t even fucking care.  He closes his eyes.  
  
There’s movement on either side of him and he feels new weight against his shoulder.  Sombra grabs his wrist in one hand and squeezes, leaning the majority of her weight against his side, like he hadn’t just carried her and another woman here, injured, by himself.  A rumble starts up in his chest that’s low and weak, and then his other arm is being lifted.  He doesn’t pull away, and Amélie lays her head in his lap, curled up on the booth.  His hand ends up on her waist, and he can feel her breathing.  
  
They’re warmer than he is, soaked in blood and covered in dust and grime — sweat on Sombra, gunpowder on Amélie — and he’s so tired he can’t even lift his head back up to look at them.  He does, however, nudge at Sombra until she sits up.  He puts his arm around her shoulder and pulls her back into his side where she fits, smaller and lighter and safe.  
  
_His girls_ , he thinks again.  
  
_His_ , and _, family_.  
  
He curls his arm around Sombra, feels her heartbeat through his armor.  His fingers trace Amélie’s lowest ribs, and he feels her breathe.  
  
He thinks of Fareeha, and he thinks of Ana, and he thinks of Jesse.  And he thinks of _Jack_.  
  
But he thinks of them too, Sombra and Amélie.  He thinks of them alive.  He thinks of them happy.  
  
Gabriel thinks of them, and holds them just a little tighter.

**Author's Note:**

>  _puedo caminar_ \- i can walk
> 
> i got that from google so it might be wrong idk.


End file.
